


expectation of resolution

by paladumb



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: AU, Angst, Classical Music AU, College AU, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Music AU, Slow Burn, with a lot of, write what you know right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladumb/pseuds/paladumb
Summary: Lance places his bow on the A string, acutely aware of the entire orchestra’s eyes on him. Across the podium, sitting in the concertmaster’s seat, Keith is in rest position, his bow dangling lazily from his fingers, his head tilted, his gaze burning a hole through Lance’s temple.He closes his eyes and all he can feel is Keith’s hands in his own, Keith’s hands against his back, his shoulders, Keith not letting go.Keith plays the violin, Hunk plays the violin, Pidge plays the viola, and Lance plays the cello. They all go to a conservatory and get stuck in the same quartet with Shiro as their coach.Or, the classical music au nobody asked for.





	1. two measures in

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god I'm so nervous about posting this
> 
> Welcome to my self-indulgent, purple-prose-drowned classical music au hellfic! This is the first installment in what’s shaping up to be a pretty long story, but I’m super invested in this au so I will complete it.
> 
> First, so many many thanks to [Julia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneJul/) for beta-ing and providing Spanish translations. (Go read her fics. Go do it.) More huge thanks to the multitude of references available at [lanceiscuban](https://lanceiscuban.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> All pieces of music mentioned are linked in the end notes and always will be.
> 
> Finally, I don’t use McClain as Lance’s last name, and [here](http://lionbots.tumblr.com/post/155728756328/sorry-to-be-that-person-but-why-are-you-against) is why.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lance is flying. The Elgar cello concerto is under the skin of his fingertips like the endings of his nerves and he’s running his hands along synapses. His eyes are closed but he can still see the audience, feel the orchestra behind him, surrounding him, sound seeping into every corner of the hall. The concertmaster is to his right, the conductor to his left, supporting him and following him and Lance lifts his bow off the strings, letting the sound ring out - the orchestra is still, the air frozen -_
> 
> Lance plays the cello, and he's going to get into Curtis - he's _going to get into the Curtis Institute of Music_ and nobody, not even a xenophobic little bitch cellist, is going to stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More notes are at the end, but there are some trigger warnings for this chapter (gotta start out strong, you know) for slurs, xenophobia, and Lance on the brink of a few panic attacks. Greater details are in the end notes for spoiler reasons.

>   ** _History made as Allura Altea is Appointed as Conductor-in-Residence of the Philadelphia Orchestra_ **
> 
> classicfm.com _The Philadelphia Orchestra made history when they released a statement today naming their choice for their new Conductor-in-Residence. Black British Maestro Allura Altea is set to take over for Christian Macelaru in the 2016-2017 season; she is the first woman of color, in fact the first woman overall - to be appointed as an official conductor for any American A-level orchestra. Macelaru announced his decision to leave the orchestra in 2015, and Music Director Yannick Nezet-Seguin began his search for his next second-in-command almost immediately._
> 
> _“The Conductor-In-Residence is my right hand man - or woman, as the case happens to be,” Nezet-Seguin said in the statement. “Altea is a phenomenal conductor, young, vibrant, and full of new ideas. She has a way with the orchestra that I’ve been privileged to witness; the choice was clear almost instantly.”_
> 
> _The Conductor-In-Residence conducts rehearsals, sectionals and a few select Philadelphia Orchestra concerts throughout each season. She will also conduct the Curtis Symphony Orchestra and plans to make guest appearances in summer festivals and with orchestras around the nation._
> 
> _Allura Altea was born in London to violin maker Alfor Altea and his wife Hyacinth Altea. She got her undergraduate degree in piano performance at the London Conservatory and received her masters in conducting at Juilliard. From there she went on to conduct the Yale Symphony Orchestra for two years before applying for the Philadelphia Orchestra’s Conductor-in-Residence position. She has guest conducted the Baltimore Chamber Orchestra, the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, the Long Island Philharmonic, and the Rhode Island Philharmonic Orchestra._

* * *

 Finding out that Allura Altea would be conducting the Curtis Symphony Orchestra was really what clinched the Curtis Institute of Music for Lance. He’d been torn between three #1 choices - Juilliard, the New England Conservatory and Curtis, but Curtis had been his gut instinct when he first went on the college hunt, and seeing the news about her appointment while scrolling through Twitter on the bathroom toilet had cemented it. Immediately.

Allura Altea. Lance had gone to see her conduct the Long Island Philharmonic for his fifteenth birthday and she was _stunning_ ; long platinum hair tied up into a severe bun, eyes bright and brilliant and smile wide and natural. She moved fluidly on the podium; her baton leapt easily and her body followed its movements. She drew the orchestra in so that she was the soloist; the orchestra was her instrument and she commanded it with a confidence so bright Lance could barely breathe. But there was a democracy in her conducting too; she communicated with the orchestra like breathing, locked eyes with the players as they looked up, gave each section leeway to push or pull as they saw fit. They followed her and she followed them.

It was a crowd-pleaser concert, meant to draw people in - a concert of popular Russian classical music, Prokofiev’s fifth symphony, triumphantly written after World War II, and Rimsky-Korsakov’s beloved _Scheherazade_ , based on _1,001 Arabian Nights,_ and she delivered. The Prokofiev, intense and ferocious in its righteousness, never held back, and Allura never let up. The orchestra ground into the stage, and the stage pushed outwards; the sound she produced was unbelievable. And _Scheherazade_ , with its lyrical violin solos and stormy brass harbingers, told the story of each night’s cliffhanger with finesse and rawness at the same time; Allura danced the ballet right there on the podium, bringing out a side to _Scheherazade_ that Lance was pretty sure no male conductor could _ever_ hope to replicate. According to the program, it was what she was known for conducting; the video of the Juilliard orchestra playing _Scheherazade_ under her baton on Youtube was deemed better than Celibidache _and_ Ormandy _and_ Gergiev, three of the greatest conductors of all time.

Lance scoured the depths of Google and went to the last page on Youtube for anything he could find of hers. Allura Altea. She was in the final year of her master’s degree at Juilliard and already being lauded as one of the great up-and-coming conductors. Already she had conducted festivals and orchestras across New England and every review he unearthed was _glowing_. There were videos of her conducting high school honors orchestras and chamber groups at Juilliard and even the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. God, she even had her own tag on Tumblr.

Lance spent the next two years trying to pretend like he _wasn’t_ stalking her. Conductors didn’t have their own Twitter update accounts or massive fandoms dedicated to collecting every piece of information, so he didn’t even know who she was married to (just that she was married). (What? The ring on her left hand was easy to spot.) But the second he found the article - on the toilet, scrolling through Twitter - he knew exactly what he wanted from college. And where he wanted it from.

* * *

Lance is flying. The Elgar cello concerto is under the skin of his fingertips like the endings of his nerves and he’s running his hands along synapses. His eyes are closed but he can still see the audience, feel the orchestra behind him, surrounding him, sound seeping into every corner of the hall. The concertmaster is to his right, the conductor to his left, supporting him and following him and Lance lifts his bow off the strings, letting the sound ring out - the orchestra is still, the air frozen -

and Lance drops his hand and the theme from the first movement of the concerto rings out at the end of the last. He loves recurring motifs. _Bring them back to the very beginning, Lance. Remind them of how far this concerto has come and remind them where you started_ , Luxia says in the back of his mind. _Come full circle._ He brings out the heart-wrenching terror and sadness of the first movement, the hope that it cautiously pushes towards before being brought back to reality with low, jarring notes. He lets the orchestra speed up, pushing him forward and he joins them, repeating the last movement’s theme, climbing higher on the cello until the music pulls back into the middle range, ending the concerto with furious punctuated statements, down bow, down bow, down bow, hold -

He releases the last note into the still air and opens his eyes to the posters on his wall - Cuban bands and orchestras intermingling, a picture of a cello that Mirana drew in her art class four years ago. He’s facing his bed, sheet music surrounding his chair, the heat rumbling from the vent to his right. Before he can even relax, his door bursts open, his three younger siblings standing there with big smiles on their faces. “Wooooo!” Elisa shouts, pointing at him. “Hacker voice: you’re in!”

Lance snorts and drapes his hands over his cello. “How long have you nosy shits been standing there?”

Mirana tosses her head. “Enough to know that in _my_ professional music judge opinion, you’ve just been accepted into Curtis.”

“Pa?” Lance asks, looking at Luis. “You’re the final critique here.”

“That was _cool_ ,” Luis grins succinctly, looking at Lance’s cello. He scratches his leg. “Can I try?”

Lance grins and jumps up, holding his cello by her neck. “Go right ahead!” Luis sits down in the chair, reaching up for the cello. “Careful with her,” Lance warns. “La Azul is the love of my life.”

His sister groan at him while Lance carefully lowers the cello to Luis, whose eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. “Yup,” he says, “one leg on each side - there! You got it, Pa.”

Luis nods. “I don’t know how to hold the bow,” he says, reaching out for it, and Lance hands it to him, folding his little brother’s fingers carefully over the frog.

“I remember when you taught me this!” Mirana says suddenly. “My loose tooth came out and dropped into the cello.”

“I swear to - What even were the odds of shit like that even happening? It took me at least three hours to get your tooth out,” Lance groans as Luis pulls the stuttering bow across the D string. “That was good!” he adds to Luis. “Try the C string, that’s the lowest one, and play really hard, it’s really satisfying.”

The rumble of the low note spreads through the floor and Lance can feel it in his feet. “That was good!” Luis says. “I’m a virtuoso.”

Lance beams. “You bet you are, Pa.”

“What time’s your audition tomorrow?” Elisa asks, perching on Lance’s bed.

“It’s not tomorrow,” he corrects. “Mami and I are just driving down tomorrow to get settled and let me get comfortable. It’s on Wednesday, the 12th of February, at 10:32 AM.”

“Wow, Lance, concerned much?” Mirana jokes, laughing, as Luis starts putting his fingers down, making scratchy little notes.

“Concerned _not at all_ ,” Lance grins. “I just wanted to remember the exact time that I was accepted into the Curtis Institute of Music.”

“Do you really think you’ll get in?” Elisa asks, picking up Beethoven’s second cello sonata from the floor and flipping through it absently. “I mean, how many cellists are they taking?”

“They only need enough cellists to fill their orchestra, and then their quota is filled,” Lance says. “One cellist graduated last year.”

“They’re taking _one_ cello?” Mirana shrieks. “ _One_? Lance.”

“Well you could have a little more faith in me,” Lance laughs, fluttering his hand over his heart. “Maybe I’m the cellist they’re looking for.”

Luis stands, cello and bow gripped firmly in his hands. “Do you want to keep practicing?” he asks. “You probably should, right?”

“Thanks, pa,” Lance smiles, taking the cello from him. “If you guys want to sit and be the Curtis judges, you’re welcome to the panel that is my bed. Just don’t get in my way.” He jabs the tip of his bow lightly into Mirana’s stomach. “I’ll spear you with the hidden sword!”

Mirana folds her arms, unimpressed. “That worked on me when I was six,” she says.

“And then you broke my bow trying to find the sword!” Lance protests, sitting and settling down behind Blue, the shoulder of the cello fitting perfectly against his sternum, pressing into the center of his chest. His breath stops for a minute. “Alright. Lord and Ladies of Curtis! Prolific judges! My name is Leandro Acosta Espinosa and I am here to wow you with my cellistical prowess!”

Elisa laughs, settling against the wall behind Lance’s bed, cross-legged and ready to play along, even though she’s sixteen, doesn’t need to play Lance’s stupid games any more. “We won’t have any mercy on you, Leandro. Give us only your best.”

“I shall begin with the majestic - E Major Scale!” Lance pronounces, readying his bow with a flourish.

Luis is smiling, braces and teeth and all. “Hit it!” he says, sitting forward.

Lance hits it.

* * *

It’s a long drive to Philadelphia. Lance’s cello (inside her bright blue case) is upright in the middle row of his mom’s minivan, strapped into the seat with a seatbelt. Lance and his mom’s suitcase is in the far back, his bag with all of his music in the other middle row seat. He obsessively checks back to make sure it’s still there.

“I’ve got all of my music, right?” he asks, trying to reach back to the bag. What if he forgot the piano part to the Beethoven - what if it’s still on the floor of his room -

“You’ve got all your music, I promise,” Evelyn Espinosa says from the driver’s seat. “Why don’t you put on some music? We can listen to anything you want.”

“I don’t really feel like listening to classical music right now,” Lance says, eyeing the bright green aux cord.

“I said anything,” Evelyn smiles. “Even Pitbull.”

Lance makes a face and picks up his phone. “I’m not going to listen to Pitbull with you, Mami. Here - Astrud Gilberto? Bossa nova singer?”

“Anything,” Evelyn stresses.

Lance smiles and plugs in his phone, letting Astrud Gilberto’s soft voice wash over him. It’s easy to fall asleep, then, to the music and the easy run of the car around him, the knowledge that Blue is safe in the backseat. He lets his eyes close.

“Mi cielo, Lance, wake up, we’re here.”

Lance peels his eyes open to see the skyline of Philadelphia rise before him. The sun is starting to go down and it reflects off of a glass skyscraper, turning the side of the building gold.

“Mami, that’s going to be my home for the next four years,” Lance smiles, sitting up and stretching. He glances into the backseat to Blue. “Yours too, La Azul.”

Driving into the city is a lot less dramatic than Lance expected. “It’s not New York or Las Vegas, Lance,” his mother shrugs when he points it out, a little disappointed. “There’s no statue of liberty or WELCOME TO VEGAS sign.”

“There should be,” Lance says. “Welcome to the home of the Curtis Institute of Music, the Philadelphia Orchestra, and Allura Altea. Be prepared to be overwhelmed by talent.”

Evelyn laughs, making a right. “I have some overwhelming talent in my car right here.”

Lance can _feel_ himself turn bright red. “You’re such a _mom_.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Evidently.”

Lance watches the buildings go by. “Where are we staying?”

“A hotel near Curtis, which - there’s some kind of membership that’s included that gave us a discount? Which is very nice,” Evelyn says absently, turning another corner. “Oh! We’re here.”

The first goddamn thing Lance sees when he enters the lobby is another cellist. An Asian boy who cannot possibly be more than 15 is has a hand on a sleek gray cello case as his mother speaks to the concierge and his father stands behind him, a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Lance is suddenly very aware of his bright blue cello case on his back covered in stickers - bumper stickers and ones from his siblings, silly and decorated. He shifts Blue higher on his shoulders and tries not to look.

Evelyn guides him towards the concierge smiling at them. “Hello,” he says, and his name tag says ARTHUR. “Curtis as well?”

Lance nods and grins right back. “I am, yeah.”

“Wonderful!” Arthur says. “Best of luck to you, then.”

“Thanks,” Lance says, and brags, “I’m going to get in.” He doesn’t see if the other family looks over. Maybe they just didn’t hear him.

“Okay,” Arthur says, and his tone doesn’t sound like he believes Lance. He continues, though, in a much more routine, recitative voice: “Because you’re auditioning for Curtis, you’re allowed to practice at any volume until 10 PM. However any practicing after that must be done at the lowest decibel level possible.” He turns towards Evelyn. “Name?”

They take the elevator after the tiny child disappears. Lance stares at the wall and can feel his mother’s gaze on him. _I’m going to get in_ , he says to himself. _I knew there would be wonderkid prodigies auditioning today, but they’re not me. I’m the one that’s going to get in. I’m the one going to spend four years getting my undergraduate degree at the Curtis Institute of Music, just like I’ve always wanted, I’m going to get in and be conducted by fucking Allura Altea because I’m going t_ **_o be accepted_ ** but it sounds like a lie.

Just like it always has.

Evelyn leaves at five o’clock so Lance can practice alone, and he stands in the center of the room, trying to regulate his breathing for minutes after she leaves. _I can’t afford to panic now_ , he thinks. _I can’t allow - can’t let myself break down - won’t let it happen_ **_again_ ** \- He straightens. Counts beats as he breathes in, a slow ⅜ time signature like the third movement of the Elgar, two measures of music equals one breath in, two measures equals one breath out. He can feel the music in the delicate bones of his fingers, his hypothetical nails accidentally scraping against the cello’s fingerboard as he thinks through the bittersweet movement.

He opens up Blue’s case and unstraps the Velcro that keeps her safe. He grabs his bow from the inside of the front and sits on the edge of the bed, extending the endpin and letting Blue rest against his sternum. It’s immediately calming and he clutches her to him. He wants this so badly. He wants this so badly it _hurts_.

He breathes. Two measures in, two measures out. Plays a few notes, a scale. He’s going to get in, he’s worked so hard for this, practiced and practiced and still at school -

He shakes his head. He refuses to think about her. He refuses to even think her name. Thinking about her will only make this worse so Lance just starts running his chosen etude for the audition, the strength and stamina building exercises they want to know he has under his fingers. It’s David Popper’s 19th etude, the “Lohengrin” study, and it’s Lance’s safest; he’s been playing it for years now and coming back to it whenever he’s bored so he knows it like the back of his hand. It calms him; he’s played it in auditions for other conservatories, so he knows what happens to it under pressure.

He spends two hours practicing on the edge of his bed, running difficult spots and breathing and trying to convince himself he’ll make it. The thing about Curtis is that there is no tuition, no matter what; it’s completely free, and Lance isn’t sure he’d even get that same deal anywhere else he’s auditioned. It’s not as though the Espinosas are poverty-stricken or are wallowing in debt, but Lance has a hard time not remembering that a time existed when his father was out of a job and there was nothing for dinner. Lance _has_ to get into Curtis - because he might not be able to go anywhere else if he doesn’t.

8 AM dawns cold but clear the next day, and Lance jolts upwards in his bed, eyesight still blurry, convinced he’s missed his audition. “Mami?”

“It’s 8 o’clock, Lance,” Evelyn says, smiling at him from where she’s doing her makeup in front of her mirror. “You’re not going to be late.”

Lance nods. “Of course. Yeah. I know I’m not.” He runs a hand through his hair.

His morning is spent flipping between rushing to get ready and breathing in and out two measures to stave off the panic that’s sitting behind his ribcage. At nine-thirty he’s changed his shirt twice (from the original to a different one and then back to the original), brushed his teeth twice, eaten two halves from two different granola bars, and practiced for thirty minutes.

He’s pulling on his coat when his mother grabs him by his shoulders. “Lance.”

He’s square with her, facing her, looking directly into her dark hazel eyes. “Mami.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Lance.”

“What do you want?”

“To get into Curtis.”

Her lips quirk in a smile. “So tell me, Lance, are you going to get into Curtis?”

In two measures.

“I am.”

She releases him. “Then you’re going to.” She opens the door and looks back at him with a smile. “You are playing on _my_ cello, after all.”

* * *

Blue is his mother’s cello, and her father’s before her, and some neglectful white guy’s before him. As Lance’s abuelo Frederico tells it, the progress of Blue is as follows.

Frederico came to the United States from Cuba in the 50s, knew two words in English (shit and toilet) set his sights on New York City, and climbed north. He had been a carpenter’s apprentice back in Cuba, but when the carpenter died, he left his shop to his son who didn’t know jack shit about woodworking. Frederico, fed up with the bullshit and thinking naively that bullshit didn’t exist in America, stole money from the safe and immigrated. He reached New York relatively unscathed, walked into the shop of a Mexican carpenter, and flat-out asked for a job. The guy’s name was Alejandro and he was about 90 _and_ knew he was going to die soon _and_ had no other workers. Frederico wondered how he continuously got himself caught up in dying carpenters.

In the five more years the old man lived for, he taught Frederico English, more about woodworking than he ever knew down in Cuba, and helped introduce him to the love of his life - a cello called Blue. (And a girl called Sandra, but the story is more about the cello they fixed together.)

The day Frederico met Blue was a sunny one about three years after he’d gotten the job at Alejandro’s. A shabbily-dressed white guy had walked into the shop carrying a cello that was banged up around the corners but otherwise looked good. “How much for it?” he’d asked.

“We - we sell furniture, sir,” Frederico stammered. “I’m sorry, I do not know where else you could go.”

“Listen, wetback,” the man said tiredly, and Frederico stiffened, his fists clenching by his sides. “I just need to get rid of the fuckin’ thing.”

Frederico turned to the safe, opened it, closed it, and slammed five dollars on the table. His voice were short. “Take it or leave it.”

The man grabbed the five dollars and left, wiping his hands mindlessly on his pants after he left. Frederico sighed and looked the cello over. Other than the scratches and slightly beat-up corners, it was beautiful, dark patterned wood with marks of age on the front and a distinct line down the middle of the back, marking the two panels that made up the back of the cello. “I’m sorry,” he murmured to it, switching back into his more comfortable Spanish. “You don’t deserve his disgusting greasy hands all over you.”

Alejandro emerged from the back. “Frederico?” he called. “Did you just make a sa…” He stopped short at the sight of the cello. “How did we acquire a cello?”

Frederico looked at his boss and then back at the cello. “Sorry?”

The old man shrugged. “Don’t be. I’ve just never touched an instrument in my life. I wouldn’t know where to start to fix it.” He came closer and peered at the cello, the loose strings and the lopsided tailpiece. “If it even can be fixed. We could make it into a shelf if you wanted.”

“No!” Frederico blurted vehemently. Alejandro raised an eyebrow. “No, I mean, I - played guitar in Cuba. I wouldn’t want to do that to _any_ instrument. Maybe there’s a… cello shop in the neighborhood?”

“They’re all in Manhattan,” Alejandro said, turning to straighten some clocks. “I can lend you a directory, but they’re all run by white men.”

“I mean, it’s just an instrument,” Frederico said, running light fingers over the sides. “It shouldn’t matter who’s bringing it to them.”

Alejandro snorted. “Three years in the States and you think skin doesn’t matter? Naive boy. You can try.”

Frederico had the door slammed in his face at three separate shops. (Lance sometimes tries to imagine how it felt but he can’t even imagine being shut out like that, ever. Every time Abuelo Frederico tells that part of the story it _hurts_.) The fourth was different.

A old man opened the door, smiling. “I see you have a cello, young man!” he said, welcoming Frederico in.

“I - I do,” Frederico stuttered, stumbling inside. “I - I work at Alej - at a carpenter shop in East Harlem, and yesterday a man came in with this, uh, _vio- violoncelo_ , and I want to know how to fix it.” He looks down at the cello. “I am sorry for my English.”

“Your English is wonderful,” the man said absently, his attention already entirely fixed on the cello. “Did he say anything about it?”

“Just he needed to get rid of it,” Frederico said.

“May I?” the man asked, holding out a hand for the cello. Frederico handed it over. The man hoisted it onto a desk and grabbed a flashlight, peering inside one of the F-holes in the front. He straightened up, stared at the wall in front of him and then shook his head and bent down to look back inside. “It can’t be,” he murmured.

“What can’t it be?” Frederico asked.

“How much did you pay this man for this cello?” the man asked, his voice tinged with excitement. “How much?”

“Five dollars,” Frederico said quietly, and the man’s eyes bugged out of his head.

“This is at least worth a hundred dollars,” the man stammered. “This - unless the tag is incorrect - my God.”

“What is it?” Frederico asked, intensely curious.

“I believe - I believe this is a Mariano Ortega cello,” the man said.

“No way!” shrieked a voice on the stairs from farther back in the shop, and suddenly something - no, someone - came barreling down the stairs. “Papa, that’s from the 19th century!”

“I know, Sandra,” said the man, and Frederico stared at the girl - young woman? - who was suddenly in front of him, the _Hispanic girl calling this white man Papa_. The man glanced at Frederico. “Oh, Sandra, this is - I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“F-Fredrico Perez,” Fredrico stammered. “I didn’t get your name either.”

“I’m Mr. Peterson,” said the man. “This is my daughter, Sandra.”

Sandra was blushing. “Hi,” she said, and Frederico smiled big and wide.

“Hello,” he said.

Mr. Peterson raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Perez is the man who brought this beautiful cello in.”

“It’s an _Ortega_ !?” Sandra squealed excitedly, running her hands lightly over the dark sides of the cello. “Mr. Perez, Mariano Ortega was a Spanish violin maker and his instruments are so rare but _so_ beautiful, I’ve only ever seen them at auctions with Papa. I play the violin but I love cellos too, and this is so beautiful, I’m - ”

Mr. Peterson tugged her against him. “I’m sorry for Sandra,” he smiled, a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “She gets very excited about instruments.”

“You do too! Don’t exclude the truth,” Sandra beamed, a blush spreading quickly across her cheeks.

“How much, Mr. Perez?” Mr. Peterson asked.

“H-How much?” Frederico repeated.

“Yes,” Mr. Peterson said. “I’ll take it off your hands, fix it up. Tell you what, I’ll give you half the profit when I sell it.”

Frederico had the sudden urge to clutch the cello to him. As it was, it was too far away from him when he said, “It isn’t for sale.”

“You don’t have anything to do with a cello, do you?” Mr. Peterson asked. “You don’t play.”

“No but - I bought it. It is mine,” Frederico said. “I just want to know how to fix it.”

“Icanshowyou,” Sandra blurted out. “I can - ” She flutters her hands towards her face. “I can help you fix it. We just need to replace all the strings, straighten the tailpiece, check the soundpost, replace the edges of the front panel, and revarnish, right? All things that Mr. Perez can help us with and so he doesn’t have to pay us for the services and he can keep the cello but also I can spend more time with him and the cello - I mean, just the cello, it’s an Ortega after all...”

Frederico’s smile was growing wider the more she spoke.

They took a month to fix the cello. Or - not really. It really only took a week, but Frederico kept going back so Sandra could teach him the basics of playing. She was a good teacher, although Frederico didn’t learn much because she would show him examples on her violin and he would wrap his arms around the cello and ask her to play again, and again, and again.

(They named the cello Blue together because of how the dark varnish of the cello reflected blue in the moonlight when Sandra let Frederico in in the middle of the night, how the thread wrapped around the ends of the strings they used on the cello was a bright blue, because of Sandra’s dark blue eyes. They called her La Azul because of the blue stone set in the ring that Frederico bought for her, because the box he brought the ring in was painted blue around the edges, because the guayabera he wore to propose was a dark navy blue.)

Their first child was Yelina, a baby girl with brown eyes and the grabbiest of hands. She wrapped herself around the cello endpin while Frederico practiced, and all carpenter knives went on the top shelves. She sang happily along to the sound of Sandra’s violin and babbled as Frederico practiced.

Their second child was Alejandro. The original carpenter had died a month before Frederico’s and Sandra’s wedding, and Frederico, who was eternally grateful for everything the man had given him, named his second child after him, and Alejandro the child took to wood like a fish to water - he stuck his hand-carved-by-his-Papi alphabet blocks into his mouth and gnawed on the edges of clocks.

Their third was Evelyn. She was quiet, with Sandra’s dark blue eyes and Frederico’s dark skin, and leaned up against Blue’s cello case to sleep. She hummed along to every song she heard, tottered around, trying to dance to bossa nova and jazz and Bach. She chose Blue, and when she was tall enough to play, Blue chose her right back.

Evelyn loved music and she loved playing cello, but she never had the urge to go into it as a profession. She accompanied rhumba and salsa groups in East Harlem, played along to records of the Beatles and Elvis in the privacy of her home but never went so far as to join an orchestra - it was just a hobby, but she kept Blue safe and treated her with respect, knowing that one of her children would one day receive Blue as their own.

She was studying to become a nurse in medical school when Enmanuel Espinosa moved in next door to her. He was a good neighbor, no loud noises from his apartment but since the walls were as thick as a piece of paper, she could hear him shuffling around and murmuring to himself. That’s how she knew - every time - he listened to her practice, because when she would start playing, there was a loud shuffling and then silence as he sat against the wall that separated their two apartments. Evelyn played him love songs and sweet classical music and hoped that one day, maybe he’d make a move.

It happened when she was practicing one day. There was a knock on her door and she put Blue down on the ground. “Coming,” she called, trudging to the door in her relaxed jeans and no makeup.

It was him. He was tall, dark, handsome, and holding a slightly wilting rose. “This is for you,” he said in Cuban-accented Spanish, looking hopeful. “You sound beautiful. I - I love hearing you play.”

She took it, careful of the thorns, and twirled it in her fingers, fighting to keep down a blush. “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “I’m Evelyn Perez.”

“Enmanuel. Uh, Enmanuel Espinosa.”

She turned and walked away to put the rose in a glass. When she turned, he was still standing at the door. “Are you going to come in?” she asked, smiling.

 _Meet-cutes_. Lance hates his parents. Cute couples are stupid and he wants a partner like that. He kind of assumes that he’ll meet the love of his life through Blue since now he has her and that’s how the past two generations of his family that had Blue have met. Maybe she’s just destined to bring people together.

They just have _history_ . Lance has never even _considered_ trying a new cello. Blue’s sound is beautiful and he’s been playing on her for so long that he knows everything about her. He knows her weak points and where she’s strong and the way her wood warps in the wintertime and the notes that are the most difficult to play.

When you’re a in a relaxed setting with other musicians, there’s always the urge to try other people’s cellos, just to see what they’re like, because maybe the grass is greener. But Lance has always had trouble getting a good sound on other people’s cellos - it’s just not a good fit, and people will try to play Blue and they never can. They give her back to him with a confused expression on their face and ask how he can even possibly get a good sound out of _that_ and he’ll just shrug and pull her close.

He arrives at Curtis fifteen minutes early, outside the warm-up room, an Asian girl about his age sitting with her cello next to an open case - Lance guesses the person currently warming up in the practice room - and texting. Her face is impassive, her hands aren’t shaking, and Lance has neither of those things going for him. “Hey,” he says. “How are you feeling about your audition?”

“Fine,” she says, and doesn’t look up from her phone.

“Cool,” Lance says. “What are you playing?”

“Music,” the girl answers. “Stop distracting me.”

Okay. Fine. Lance looks up at the practice room door as it opens and a white guy with a schlop of blond hair, ruddy cheeks, and broad shoulders exists. He’s carrying his cello like a baseball bat, holding it by the neck, endpin forward. Lance winces. He would never treat Blue like that.

The boy stops in front of Lance and the Asian girl. “The list in there says that Leen-dro Espinoza is next in,” he says. “Is that you?”

“Lance, actually,” Lance says, unlocking Blue’s case. “Thanks.”

“Good luck,” the guy scoffs and Lance’s heart does double-time. _Remember, you’re going to get in_.

“See ya,” Lance says to the girl, and heads into the room. It’s nice, tall ceiling, a mirror in the wall that a chair is facing, baby grand piano in the corner. He dumps his music on the ground next to him and pulls out Blue’s endpin, settling down with his cello.

“Alright, baby girl,” he says to her, tightening the hair on his bow. “Let’s do this.”

He runs through scales and arpeggios, flicking through the second movement of the Elgar, letting the movements of Bach’s third cello suite dance across the strings. The Beethoven is the only piece on the stand, and Lance flips through to his most difficult part. It’s then when his phone’s alarm goes off and he stops playing. It’s time. It’s time. Oh God. Focus. Focus. _I can do it. I can get in._

He checks the list. Ying Fu is next. She must be the girl outside. He exits, music clasped under his arm, cello and bow in his other hand. “Ying Fu?” he says hesitantly, and the girl nods.

“Me, thanks,” she says, and rushes into the practice room.

Lance takes a deep breath. Okay. Okay. Okay.

His mom is waiting right outside the audition doors, and as soon as she sees him she smiles, but Lance can barely contain himself. He speedwalks over to her and  she reaches for him. “Lance?” He can feel the tears building behind his eyes and struggles to keep them back. _I can do it. I can make it in, I have to, I can -_

“No puedo hacerlo, Mami,” he says quietly. I can’t do it. It’s the first time he’s even said it out loud, the thing he’s most scared of. _I can’t do it. Oh God._

“No, no,” Evelyn says, framing her son’s face in her hands. “Tu vas a tocar bien. Yo estoy tan orgullosa de tu y todo lo que has cumplido. Te amo mucho.” She kisses his forehead. “ _Te amo_.”

Lance struggles to breathe. No, no, two measures in, two - two measures out - two measures in, out, in -

“Ugh,” says a loud, abrasive voice, and Lance’s head snaps up to see the blond guy watching them. “Fucking immigrants.”

Lance’s stomach bends. “I’m sorry?” he asks, pulling away from his mother. _Two measures in and two measures out._

“You’re not going to get past the first round,” the Drumpf supporter shrugs. “You don’t even belong in this country. Go back to Mexico.”

 _Two measures in. Two measures out_.

A girl with a clipboard emerges from the audition room doors in time to hear the end of the other cellist’s commentary. Her mouth drops open.

Lance’s nerves are on fire. His heart is pounding and his breathing is unsteady but his stomach is filling with fury and vitriol. He forgets the audition as his fingers tighten around Blue and he walks directly up to the guy, maintaining eye contact. There are some things that you just can’t say to Lance Espinosa. He’s going to kick this kid’s _ass_ and get the _fuck_ into Curtis. Fuck this guy.

“Bitch, I’m Cuban,” Lance says.

He turns away, towards the audition doors. The girl looks him dead in the eye and says his name. “Leandro Espinosa?”

It’s not pronounced correctly, but Lance doesn’t give a shit. “Lance, actually,” he tells her as she steps aside to hold the door open for him. He stops in the doorway and looks over at his mother.

“Kick ass,” she says, and her grin fortifies his spine in steel.

He steps inside and the door closes behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in greater detail: In a flashback to the 50s, a racist white guy called Lance’s grandfather a wetback. A Curtis auditionee tells Lance and his mother that they’re immigrants who should go back to Mexico. And Lance almost has several panic attacks dealing with his nervousness about the audition, but they never manifest into a full blown attack.
> 
> Comments and reviews are more than welcome! (Please leave them.) If you have any suggestions I'm open to all ideas, too - just please phrase them nicely. I'm a sensitive soul.
> 
> Links to music, in order of appearance! I do highly suggest you listen to all of these, mostly because I’m a nerd and I think they’re good, but I've marked with an exclamation mark the ones that will have significance to the story.
> 
> [Prokofiev's Fifth Symphony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBY5Mb90_lw)  
> [Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RSCM9E8YGs)  
> [Elgar's Cello Concerto!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPhkZW_jwc0)  
> [Beethoven's Second Cello Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anWKfStxLZk)  
> [24 canciones sung by Astrud Gilberto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NycRBSrvpQA)  
> [Popper's 19th etude](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRRh8dj0Ipk)  
> [Mischa Maisky playing Bach's 3rd cello suite!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0dWyGsroNI&list=PLb_y59USpTZJve6TB7xZOSY3A0vDxgd8F)
> 
> My [main blog](https://gravitvs.tumblr.com) and my [fandom sideblog](https://paladumb.tumblr.com). Come scream at me there too!


	2. caesura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Hey, Keith,” Terry says. “So, listen. You can’t stay here. You’ve violated the terms of your foster care in our home. I’ve already contacted your case worker - Patricia, correct? and they’re working on finding you a new home.”_
> 
> _Keith gawps. Not even a chance. Just goodbye._
> 
> Keith Kogane used to play the violin. And he isn't going to miss it. At all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I've stuck to my schedule! My goal is to update every two weeks, and wow, look at me go. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! I love Keith with more force than I can contain in my angry queer body so I hope I did him justice for you guys as well. Huge thanks to everyone who commented and gave the last chapter kudos - it means the entire world to me.
> 
> Shout out to my beta who has actually been too busy with school to beta this chapter, so it remains un-beta'd - but go check out her work, @[InsaneJul](archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneJul)!
> 
> Again, trigger warning for a detailed panic attack this time (@me: why) and also some mild violence. More details in end notes.

Keith’s knuckles hurt.

He’s never punched anyone before. There’s a mostly unspoken threat hanging around him - hurt someone and you’ll never find a home - that he’s heeded because he wasn’t going to hurt anyone. No one had ever done jack shit to be the first person to make Keith Kogane snap.

The sound of wood splintering on brick echoes in his head and he tries to think about anything else. Like how disappointed. Terry and Cheryl are going to be. They’d promised to keep him with them as long as he was still in school with no major disciplinary issues, and in a fit of stupid, ungovernable, uncontrollable rage he’s probably gone and gotten himself fucking expelled.

And to think he’d thought today was going to be a good day.

* * *

Keith’s not sure how long he’s sat here, holed up in his shared room in a silent (for once) house. He knows the school won’t be able to get a hold of either Terry or Cheryl while they’re still at work; Terry works on a farm an hour away with no reception and Cheryl’s boss refuses to let any personal calls (at all) come through at work, because he’s a dick. For once, Keith is glad. He’d just run straight out of the building, left everything there, his backpack, his books, his phone. The only thing he has on him now are his keys to the house and bruised knuckles. Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _ Sendak probably took all that, too - no wait, they took him to the nurse’s office. Fuck, Keith’s fucking lucky they didn’t catch  _ him _ . He’s in so much trouble.

The house door opens and shuts. “Keith,” calls a man’s voice. Terry.

“Keith, I heard about what happened,” Terry continues. “Come downstairs.”

He sounds apathetic. Keith opens the door to his room with a shaking hand. He knows what’s about to happen. He knows the one proviso they took him in under, and he just broke it.

_ Stays in school with no major disciplinary issues _ . 

He walks slowly down the stairs to the kitchen. Terry is making himself a tuna sandwich. He doesn’t turn around. “Hey, Keith,” he says. “So, listen. You can’t stay here. You’ve violated the terms of your foster care in our home. I’ve already contacted your case worker - Patricia, correct? and they’re working on finding you a new home.”

Keith gawps. Not even a chance. Just  _ goodbye _ . “Can I at least exp- ”

“You knew the consequences,” Terry says. “Your backpack, books and phone are all in the living room, by the way. They also gave me the remains of your violin in case you wanted them.”

Keith freezes, and looks through the doorframe. The edge of his backpack is visible around the corner. He can’t see the rest of -

“So why are you kicking me out?” he demands. “You have to at least understand why I did what I did.”

“It’s just a violin,” Terry shrugs, picking up his sandwich. “It’s not like it’s important. You can always get a new one.”

Keith smacks the sandwich out of his hands and onto the floor. Terry watches it drop and then his head shoots up to glare at Keith. It’s satisfying to see him actually have an emotion, even if he does look angry. 

“How is this -  _ your sandwich _ what you’re angry about?” Keith hollers, his chest feeling void and like all his guts have been ripped out. “I punched a kid! He  _ shattered my violin _ ! The violin that  _ my parents gave me _ , so no, I can’t fucking  _ get a new one _ .”

Terry puts a hand on Keith’s shoulder and tries to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Keith.”

Keith shoves him away. “No, you’re fucking not.” 

His feet carry him into the living room and stop him in front of the closed violin case. He stares at it for a very long time, can hear Terry puttering around in the kitchen, and wants to rip something apart. He feels like he’s about to explode out of his skin; there’s something itching inside of his ribs and he’s staring at the violin case and knowing exactly what he’ll find inside and he can’t bring himself to open it.

He drops to his knees, so slow, so he doesn’t jostle the volcano inside his gut, and his fingers reach around the case for the zipper. Right side. Left side. Unlatch at the front.

He opens the case and shuts it immediately, his eyes burning, molten rock pushing at them. He takes in a trembling breath and opens the case again.

_ “Your parents weren’t able to finalize their will, son,” the judge is saying. “But what was there was enough.”  _

_ He pulls a violin case out from behind his desk with his left hand, the hand that’s not sitting on the desk, and Keith takes it, puts it on his lap. “They left you this violin. The will stated that it was to be given to you in case of anything happening to them.” He shakes his head. “It’s a pity they weren’t able to give you more money.” _

_ Keith opens the case, unzips the right half of the zipper and then the left. He undoes the latch in the front and then lifts the front of the case. _

_ The violin gleams at him like gold. It’s pale, so pale, and Keith lifts it out of its case. It’s a full size, even though he’s on a three-quarter size right now. But it’s so, so beautiful, and Keith turns it over in his hands. The back is two pieces, starts at a glowing auburn at the top where the neck meets the body and lightens to a beautiful finished gold at the bottom, where it meets a rosewood chinrest. The fingerboard is a warm red color that matches the chinrest, and the strings are gleaming, no white rosin dust anywhere near the intricate bridge.  _

_ Keith frantically searches the case for a shoulder rest, attaching it to the violin and pulling out the unused bow. His parents must have thought ahead - there’s a cloth, shoulder rest, even a cake of yellow violin rosin. Keith eagerly rosins the bow, his ears miles away from anything the judge in front of him is saying. He doesn’t care. This - his parents left him  _ this _ , they gave him a piece of them to keep with him always and he knows that they wouldn’t give him a bad instrument so it has to be nice. He lifts the violin and tucks it under his chin. He’s been playing for five years now and he just finished putting the final touches on Bach’s Air on the G String with Mrs. Ko - and he closes his eyes and feels the warmth under him as the strings vibrate at the bow’s lightest touch. The judge is probably still talking, but Keith couldn’t care less; he feels like something has been righted for the first time since his parents’ death and he’s where he belongs,  _ his parents’ violin _ tucked under his chin, playing Bach. _

The neck is mostly intact, but the fingerboard has broken off where the neck meets the shoulders of the violin’s body. The strings are curling towards the scroll. The bridge is somewhere under - Keith’s vision goes blurry for a second and he goes to wipe the tears away, even though there aren’t any there.

The body of the violin, the gold that Keith saw in the warm-lit judge’s room seven years ago, the warm wood that he knows like he knows his own body, is lying in shards inside the case. Keith isn’t breathing, can’t breathe, his ribs slowly closing in on his lungs and he reaches - are those hands his? They don’t look like his hands, and they’re attached to his arms but - those are  _ not _ his hands, oh God, he doesn’t recognize himself anymore, and the only thing he had to connect him to his parents is fucking  _ gone _ , holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, the only thing he fucking  _ loved  _ in the world is lying in front of him, and it feels like his heart is going to pound right out of his chest, his vision tunneling until all he can see is Sendak’s hand on the neck of the violin, smashing it against the wall, and Keith falls backwards.

“Are you alright?” Terry’s voice calls from the kitchen, but Keith can’t draw enough breath to answer, and Terry’s footsteps draw closer until he sees Keith sitting on the ground, his violin case open in front of him. “Please calm down,” Terry says. “I’m sorry you lost your parents’ gift, but it’s not the end of the world, Keith.”

It is the end of the world. Keith is sitting in front of the only thing that has carried him through seven years of the foster care system, literally the thing he cuddled with when he was ten and missed his parents, the only thing he’s ever taken with him. And it’s  _ broken _ . Keith was going to audition for Curtis, for Juilliard, for Eastman and NEC and Peabody, but with no violin and no private teacher to begin with, that’s not happening now, is it? Mr. Iverson had promised to step in as Keith’s private teacher because he’d been giving Keith tips whenever Keith had spent his lunch period practicing in the empty auditorium but now Keith - Keith isn’t going to be able to find another violin as nice as this one, and no music teacher is going to step in now for Iverson, and no foster parent is going to blow so much money on something they’ll see as inconsequential.

It’s over. 

Terry keeps making his sandwich in the kitchen, unconcerned, and Keith buries his head in his hands and cries.

* * *

“...  _ he broke my son’s nose, Mr. Iverson. _ Brock has a concussion, a broken nose, two black eyes, and Kogane knocked out one of his teeth! Principal White, I think I have a right to take Kogane to court.”

“You know, Keith has a right to take your son to court as well,” Mr. Iverson interjects calmly, speaking for the first time that meeting, unfolding his arms and sitting forward. 

Keith is sitting in an East High conference room with Terry and Cheryl on his left and Mr. Iverson on his right; the principal, Mr. White (who is white) is at the head of the table, and on the other side, Brock Sendak looking worse for wear and his parents and their  _ family lawyer _ . They’re discussing what Keith’s punishment should be for giving a piece of shit what he deserved. 

“!!!!!!!!” Sendak’s dad says furiously. “ _ Brock did nothing _ \- ”

Keith grits his jaw and thinks about wiping away his tears, standing on legs that felt like rubber, and throwing away his violin. It’s in the trash can outside of Terry and Cheryl’s house. Just like the rest of everything he’s worked for. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Sendak,” Iverson says, his voice steely, “but Mr. Kogane could sue your son for harassment and destruction of property. And since Brock is eighteen, he would be tried as an adult, whereas Keith would be tried as a minor.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sendak’s mom says. “Brock wouldn’t do  _ anything  _ like that!”

“It’s a good thing there are security cameras in the auditorium, then,” Iverson tells her. He pulls the remote on the table towards him and points it towards the large television at the end of the conference table. “I have the footage all drawn up.”

The security camera is placed at the far end of the auditorium, looking out over the stage and most of the audience. It shows Keith and Iverson talking over the podium, Keith pointing at the score to Bruch’s violin concerto - which he was going to play that winter - and saying something that doesn’t really matter anymore. Sendak is tiptoeing towards Keith’s chair, hands reaching out to grab his violin, and everyone in the room’s eyes are glued to the screen. Keith wants to look away, or maybe to reach through the screen to yesterday and pull Sendak away from his violin, maybe have the Keith of the past take his violin to talk to Iverson, instead of leaving it on his seat like an  _ idiot _ .

Sendak grabs the violin by the neck, and the Keith on the screen whirls as the bow clatters to the ground. Through the tinny speakers, he faintly shouts  _ HEY! _ , furious, and Brock starts laughing and runs, jumps off the stage with Keith’s violin in hand. Keith follows immediately, and after a pause, Iverson jumps off too, but Brock is a fucking football player with a head start and he runs up the side aisle next to the brick wall of the auditorium. Screen Keith’s face is furious, filled with terror, and he’s fast enough to start catching up to Brock, who swings around, sees Keith coming for him, and smashes the violin against the wall like a baseball bat.

Screen-Keith stops. Freezes. Brock drops the intact neck to the ground and the second it touches the floor, Keith is  _ on him, seeing red, knocks him to the ground, filled with blind rage and horror, it’s over, everything is ended for him. His violin is gone and it is  _ **_all Sendak’s fault_ ** _ , his entire future has just shattered against a wall, and Keith’s fingers are wrapped into a fist and he punches and punches, his left hand holding Sendak down, and then Mr. Iverson is pulling him off, shouting something into his ear and Keith zeroes in on the remains of his violin behind Sendak and yanks free of Iverson’s hands on his arms and runs, dodges the security in the front entryway and just starts running home, blood on his hands and tears on his face, his throat tight and his heart racing _ .

“I think that’s enough,” Mr. Iverson says, ending the video. “Apparently, Brock would do something like that.”

“It’s just a violin!” Mr. Sendak snaps, putting his arm around his son’s shoulders. “It’s replaceable! It’s not the same!” (Terry nods.)

Keith lurches forward, ready to fucking  _ eviscerate  _ that rich, entitled, asshole when Iverson puts a vice-like hand on his shoulder. “Let me explain,” he says. “Keith’s violin was a $17,000 Joseph Curtin violin. That’s on the low side for that particular violin-maker; recently a Curtin & Alfs violin sold for $132,000 at auction.” Keith settles back, beginning to understand. The Sendaks are a family of sociopaths that understand nothing but money and each other; the fact that Keith’s violin was his parents and holds sentimental value as well would have meant nothing to them. “I understand you are... financially well-off.”

“That is correct,” Mrs. Sendak preens, pushing her hair behind her ears, her large diamond earrings glinting. 

“However, I also understand that you would be loathe to part with $17,000 dollars.” Iverson leans forward. He’s the most straightforward person Keith knows, so he’s surprised that he didn’t just come right out and tell them that they were greedy fucks. Keith wonders if their little brains can comprehend that fact.

Mr. Sendak’s eyes narrow and his mouth thins. “That’s also correct.”

“I’m unsure if you’re aware, but violins get more expensive with age,” Mr. Iverson adds.

Mr. Sendak’s jaw tightens.

“Drop any sort of court case against Keith, and we’ll drop any sort of court case against you,” Mr. Iverson proposes. “Nobody likes it, but nobody would win in this scenario either. Nothing has to become legal if it doesn’t need to. Mr. Kogane is most… most likely moving away soon anyway, given that he has violated the terms of his staying with Mr. and Mrs. Boot, so a restraining order isn’t necessary. We will let the school enact the punishment it believes Keith, and possibly Brock deserve, and then all will be over with.”

The Sendaks look at each other, and then their lawyer. “We will… discuss it,” Mr. Sendak says, and stands. “Is there anything else?”

“Just that, as Keith has a previously clean record despite being bounced from foster home to home, is an orphan, and the violin was his parent’s only gift to him in their will, if this was to go into the public courts that a jury would be overwhelmingly on his side,” Mr. Iverson says airily. “Good day.”

“You said you’re… the band director?” the lawyer frowns.

“Orchestra director,” Mr. Iverson corrects. “However, I was a lawyer for a few years before I went back to school for music education.” He smiles with teeth. “ _ Good day _ .”

Keith stares Brock directly in the eye as he stands. Brock glares right back with absolute hatred marring his already ugly face.

“Keith, your case worker, Patricia, just emailed us,” Cheryl says into the thick air. “She says that she has two families willing to take you and you can make the decision about which you’d like to stay with.”

“I don’t care,” Keith mumbles.

“Then care,” Mr. Iverson says. “Meet with them.”

“I mean, I’ll meet with them. I just don’t really care about, whatever,” Keith says. Iverson glances at Mr. White. 

“Not even if one of them is offering to help you find a new violin?” Cheryl asks. “There’s a young Philadelphia couple who - ”

“I don’t care anymore, oh my God,” Keith snaps. “I literally do not give a shit. They could buy me a mansion and I would not care.” He stands and slams his chair in, staring at the ground. “Can we just, like, go home, or back to Terry or Cheryl’s place, or wherever the fuck I’m staying now.”

Iverson stands and puts his hand back on Keith’s shoulder. “If someone’s willing to try and find you a new violin, maybe you should really consider them. They might be - ”

“Jesus Christ,” Keith says, and storms out of the room. He doesn’t care, doesn’t want another violin, doesn’t want any  _ replacement _ . It’s over and there’s no hope that he can ever have his dreams back.

Terry and Cheryl meet him outside the conference; inside, Keith can see Iverson with his head bent over the table. He feels his stomach twist at the corners but turns away. 

“Patricia’s setting up meetings with your new potential foster families,” Cheryl says. “They’ll be in public.”

Keith sighs and looks away. She’s afraid he’ll act out now that he has a history of violence. Great. “Okay,” he says.

When they’re back at the Boots’ home, Keith heads up to the room he shares with Charlie and Vihaan. Charlie is fifteen and sullen, passed from home to home; Vihaan is fifteen and nosy as all hell but goes to bed at 9, so Keith can usually avoid him, but not today. He’s been with the Boots since he was eight and is a household staple. 

“Hey, is it true that you broke Brock Sendak’s face open?” Vihaad asks the second Keith walks into his room and curls up on his bed. “The entire school’s talking about it.”

Keith turns away, his back to the center of the room. It’s a clear  _ I don’t want to talk about it _ position, but Vihaad apparently doesn’t get it.

“Because, seriously, good job,” Vihaad says earnestly. “A lot of people are talking about shit he’s pulled. And no one knows why you did it and I’ll literally be a hero to everyone if I tell them I got the inside story.” He pauses, and then adds with fake bravado, “Also, Kelly Rhyse promised me her number if I told her your side of the story first thing tomorrow. So, I’m getting her number, Keith, spill.”

Keith sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it, Vihaad.”

“Keith, you’d better,” Vihaad says, an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

Vihaad goes to bed at 9 so he can get up at 4 to work out. He’s decided to join the army the second he can. Keith has no doubt that Vihaad can force the answer out of him.

Keith’s head does a 180 to look over at Vihaad. “Check the trash can, Vihaad.”

He frowns. “I’m confused.”

“I’m sure even you can comprehend what a broken violin in the trash can means, dude.”

A gasp. “Sendak broke your  _ violin _ ? Holy shit, you love that thing!”

“Why do you think I beat him up?” Keith asks, but Vihaad is rushing out of the room.

“Is he actually about to go nosing through the trash cans?” Charlie asks from his upper bunk.

“Apparently,” Keith mumbles. “I’m about to go to sleep.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Charlie says into his pillow. “I hope the bedbugs eat your ass.”

Keith makes a face up at the upper bunk. Charlie’s just going through his emo phase. It’s okay. He buries his face in the pillow and tries not to think at all, just hopes he’ll be asleep before Vihaad comes back up and can bug him again.

* * *

He meets with the Yardsleys first.

They meet at a Starbucks, a middle-aged white couple and Keith. Both Yardsleys are wearing khakis. The man (Keith already forgets his name) is wearing a white polo shirt. The woman has a blue blouse on. She orders a vanilla bean frappuccino. The man orders a caramel latte.

“Hello,” Mr. Yardsley says. “It’s good to meet you, Keith.”

“I’m Cindy,” Mrs. Yardsley says. “How are you, Keith?”

“I’m good,” Keith says.

There’s silence.

“Our local highschool is Farmington High and it’s quite small - last year’s graduating class had sixty-three students - and we’re willing to foster you if you agree to not cause any major disturbances there,” Mr. Yardsley says.

“Don’t get into trouble,” Mrs. Yardsley says.

“We’ve fostered several other kids throughout the years because I’m sterile,” Mr. Yardsley says bluntly. Keith wants to throw himself through a window. Why did he agree to this public meeting again? “We live on the edge of Farmington, on a farm.”

“We have a couple of get-to-know-you questions,” Mrs. Yardsley says, pulling out a sheet of perfectly folded paper from her purse. “What’s your favorite color?”

Keith is going to need coffee to stay awake through this. “Red,” he says. “Excuse me for a second.”

He heads up to the barista and orders a double espresso. “Wow,” she mutters to him as she writes his name on the drink. “are they really that boring?”

Keith glances at her. “Don’t judge them by how they look.”

She raises her hands. “Sorry. One double espresso for Keith, coming right up.”

Keith’s favorite animal is the lion. Keith’s favorite movie is Jason Bourne. Keith’s favorite musical genre is classical. Keith’s favorite TV show is he doesn’t have one (lie, he watched Voltron: Defender of the Universe when he was little and loves it to this day, but that’s personal.) Keith’s favorite song is “Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite.”

(“Wow, I don’t know that song,” Mrs. Yardsley says. “Can you say it again so I can look it up when I get home?”

“You couldn’t spell it right even if you had a million tries,” Keith mutters under his breath. Louder, he says, “Give me a sheet of paper and I’ll write it down.”)

(Keith’s favorite piece isn’t the Scythian Suite, but it’s the angriest, most dissonant classical piece Keith can think of off the top of his head.)

Keith’s favorite season is summer. Keith’s favorite weather is thunderstorms. Keith’s favorite flower is “I don’t know? I’ve never much paid attention to flowers.”

The meeting ends after thirty long minutes in which Keith makes up favorites he didn’t even know he had (Which Kardashian? “ _ I barely know who those people are?” _ ) and buys two more double espressos.

“Do you have any questions for us?” Mrs. Yardsley says at the end.

“What’s the music program at your high school like?” Keith asks, out of pure curiosity.

“I… think there’s a band,” Mr. Yardsley says slowly. “Why? Do you play an instrument?”

Wow.  _ Violin _ is written all over his file, which he knows the Yardsleys received.

“I used to,” Keith mutters.

“Oh that’s nice,” Mrs. Yardsley says. “I played the oboe in sixth grade and hated it. What an ugly instrument.”

Keith’s head fills with the Strauss oboe concerto and the oboe solo from  _ Don Juan _ and  _ Le Tombeau de Couperin _ and Mozart oboe quartets. He almost says it, almost breaks the thin layer of unreasonably calm, suffocating saran wrap that’s covered the three of them.  _ It’s not an ugly instrument! You were just bad at it. You just didn’t care enough to keep trying. _ “Huh,” he says.

“It was nice to meet you, Keith,” Mr. Yardsley says. “You seem nice.”

“Thanks,” Keith says, shaking both of their hands as he stands. “You too.”

* * *

Keith’s Philadelphia couple is meeting him first in a nearby park and then driving to a bagel shop. Already they’re more interesting than the Yardsleys - their names are familiar to Keith too, but he can’t place them.

He chooses a bench in front of a lake; the air is chilly in mid-October and there’s a man fishing at the other end. It’s unbelievably serene and peaceful, and it provides Keith with something he hasn’t had in a long time – unbroken solitude.

He walks to the rocky edge of the water and bends, searching for a round, flat stone. It’s one of his favorite memories of his parents, the day they went to Fairmount Park and had a picnic by the edge of a large lake. His dad had picked up a stone and skipped it across the water,  _ tkk-tkk-tk-tk-tk-tktktktktk  _ until it sank. Keith had dropped his sandwich and jumped over to his dad –  _ teach me how to do that! _

They spent the afternoon with Keith skipping stones and his parents watching and guiding, cheering the first time he got three skips in, his mother telling him he should go into competitive stone skipping.  _ That’s not a thing! _ Keith had laughed, picking up a much more solid rock and throwing it in as far as he could.

_ Everything’s a thing _ , his father said,  _ if you want it enough _ .  _ Make your own stone skipping competition, Keith _ .

_ I think I’ll just go be in an orchestra like you guys,  _ Keith decided.  _ It sounds like fun _ .

He picks up a stone and skips it across the pond,  _ tkk-tkk-tk-tk-tk _ . The guy fishing looks up and decides that Keith’s far enough away to not bother his fish, and goes back to looking forlornly at the water.

Keith skips a couple more stones and runs his fingers through the clear water, looking for a better stone. He finds one and leans down low, bending his knees and curling his fingers around the stone.  _ Back, and – like a Frisbee! _ Keith releases the stone and it goes farther than it ever has for him before,  _ tkk-tkk-tkk-tkk-tk-tk-tk-tktk. _

“You’re good at that,” observes a voice behind him and Keith jolts, almost falling into the water. He turns to see a tall, laughing man with a scar across the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, sorry. You’re Keith, right?” 

Keith nods warily. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” The man comes forward, his left hand out to Keith. “I’m Takashi Shirogane, but I usually go by Shiro. Which, uh, you can call me Shiro if you want.”

A lightbulb goes off in Keith’s head. “Oh, you’re – ”

Shiro nods. “The potential foster parent! It’s good to meet you, Keith. My wife – that’s Allura, she’s just parking the car – she’ll be here soon.” Keith shakes his hand with his left hand. “I hope you don’t mind the park,” Shiro continues. “Allura just wanted to get in some exercise before we ate anything.”

Keith nods. “Okay. That’s fair, I guess.”

Shiro’s got Japanese features, a lock of white hair curling over his forehead even though he’s young still – he can’t be more than thirty, at least – and his right arm dangles awkwardly by his side. Keith really wants to ask about his arm but knows about prying questions.

Shiro smiles at him. “You can ask about my arm.”

“Okay,” Keith says, looking away. “Is it okay?”

Shiro lifts it. “It’s a prosthetic,” he explains, removing it. “Just there for looks. I was in a car accident a few years back.” He reattaches the arm and points at the scar. “That’s how I got this too.”

Keith blinks. Something clicks.  _ Holy shit _ .

“Wait,” he says. “You’re not Takashi Shirogane from – ” And that means his  _ wife _ must be -

Shiro’s face suddenly lights up as he sees someone behind Keith and he waves. “Allura!” he calls, cutting Keith off. “I can’t wait for you to meet her,” he blurts out, his eyes wide as he looks earnestly at Keith. “She’s the most incredible person on the planet. You’ll really like her.”

“Are you Keith?” Allura asks, her British accent curling around the words as she rushes to stand next to Shiro and size Keith up. Before he can even answer, she’s wrapping her arms around him and pressing him close. Keith’s heart seizes in his chest. “I’m  _ so sorry _ !” she blurts out into his hair. “I’m so sorry for  _ everything _ ! It must be awful, losing your violin like that – Shiro and I – we understand and – ” She pulls back, her blue eyes traveling all over Keith’s face. “I can’t  _ imagine _ losing my instrument to an immature, piece of shite bully. You had every right to do what you did – I would have absolutely  _ slaughtered  _ them!”

“!?” Keith says, staring  _ Allura Altea  _ in the face.  _ Allura Altea _ , Conductor-In-Residence of the Philadelphia Orchestra, wants to be  _ his  _ foster mother. “I – ”

Shiro threads his fingers through Allura’s, pulling her away from Keith. “Do you want to take that walk, Allura? Keith?”

Allura nods, straightening – holy  _ shit _ , she’s tall, she’s taller than Shiro – and smiles. “Of course. My apologies, Keith.”

“Don’t – be sorry. Thank you,” is what Keith stammers out. He doesn’t stammer out,  _ I haven’t been hugged like that for years, I haven’t had anyone care about me in that capacity since forever, and you have given more to me in the first thirty seconds of knowing than I was given in a year and a half of living in a foster home.  _ “I’ll go on a walk with you.”

Allura beams at him. “How magnanimous of you!” she teases, and turns with Shiro. “Shall we, then?”

Keith joins them, sticking his hands in the pockets of his red jacket to try to stop them from shaking. “So, you’re, Allura Altea. Phil - Philly Orchestra Allura Altea...?”

Allura smiles even brighter, and Shiro looks overjoyed. “I am! It’s such a recent appointment, too – I’m so excited to put all of my conducting skills to the ultimate test! Of course, this is the trial year so I may not stay, but – ”

“I’ve seen videos of your conducting,” Keith blurts out, thinking of 2 AM visits to the Boots’ computer room, turning on Incognito Mode and watching videos of Allura Altea conducting the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra in Rimsky-Korsakov’s  _ Scheherazade _ and Strauss’s  _ Ein Heldenleben _ and Debussy’s  _ La Mer _ . “You’re really good.”

“To put it mildly,” Shiro adds, and Allura actually blushes. “She’s phenomenal.”

“I’m phenomenal?” Allura asks. “You’re the phenomenal one.” She turns to Keith. “Shiro was a member of the – ”

“Kerberos Quartet,” Keith finishes. “I know, I’ve – seen videos.”

It’s a story of the ultimate betrayal – widely publicized in the classical music world, Takashi Shirogane was the cellist of the famed Kerberos Quartet with first violinist Gary Zarkon, second violinist Matt Holt, and violist Samuel Holt. Shiro had started his career as a child prodigy soloist, but moved to chamber music after meeting the Holt brothers and Zarkon. Gary Zarkon had always been jealous of Shiro for his easy fame and the clout his name held in the music world, but the quartet was only better for their connection, always trying to one-up the other and bouncing their interpretations off of each other. Then, as the media truthfully tells it, Zarkon was driving Shiro to a gig when he drove the car straight off the road. With a little too much faith in his driving ability, Zarkon had meant for the crash to kill Shiro while Zarkon had many precautions to survive – unfortunately, Shiro had survived, told his story, and Zarkon was jailed for attempted murder.

But the Shiro that had given the Kerberos quartet its fame was gone, his right arm crushed in the crash. Incapable of playing cello, he’d turned to teaching the next generation of young musicians instead, where, teaching at Curtis, he’d met Allura Altea. 

“Wow,” Shiro laughs. “How much time did you spend on Youtube?”

“About the amount of time I wasn’t practicing,” Keith says.

“Can I ask how you got into the violin?” Allura questions curiously. “I have read your file, and all it said was that your  _ Curtin violin _ was given to you by your parents.” As Keith pauses, she adds hurriedly, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know. I’m just curious.”

“No, uh,” Keith says. “My mom was in the Seoul Philharmonic, assistant principal viola.” He swallows. “My dad was a French horn player in the Philadelphia Orchestra, and they did a residence in South Korea to try to promote peace and tolerance in the 80s.”

Shiro and Allura are both watching him gently, but when Keith looks up at them, expecting to find pity, he just sees support and acceptance. “They met there. And um, then my mom – did a lateral move to the Philly Orchestra for my dad.”

Allura’s mouth drops open. “That’s adorable,” she gushes. “Please keep going.”

“And then they had me and I got a violin when I was four,” Keith shrugs. “And the Curtin violin was left to me in their will.” He stares down at his feet trudging along the rocky path,  _ Air on the G String _ echoing in his memory.

“I am sorry,” Allura says after a moment. “Truly.”

Keith mumbles, “You don’t have to be.”

He glances across the pond; the fisherman is wildly attempting to reel in a catch, the line taught. He knows Allura and Shiro are watching him carefully. No doubt they’ve been warned about taking in teenage foster kids. Teenage foster kids, bounced from home to home, are more likely to act out, to not open up, to get into trouble. Now that Keith has a fight in his file, he’s a problem child. They’re worried he’ll start more fights, cause more problems.

The only thing that kept him out of trouble was concentrating entirely on the violin. Now that that’s gone, he has no clue where all of his anger and energy is going to go.

“Bagels?” Shiro suggests after a moment. “Google maps says it’s a five-minute drive.”

Keith nods. “I could eat,” he agrees as Allura turns on her heel and starts marching back the way they came.

“So, Keith,” she says, looking back at him as she charges ahead. “You like classical music then?”

“I do,” Keith says.

“Sorry,” Allura laughs, “that was kind of an obvious question – top five favorite composers, then?”

It hurts, talking about the thing he’s leaving behind, but it’s just so easy to talk about. “I kind of like Beethoven,” Keith mumbles. “And Debussy, and Brahms – Prokofiev, definitely, I can’t believe I almost forgot him – I think he’s one of the greatest symphonic composers, right next to Mahler.”

“I  _ love  _ Prokofiev!” Allura gushes. “I’m actually a Prokofiev specialist, my Master’s thesis was on Prokofiev - I know it’s not the most popular, but I think Prokofiev’s fourth symphony is so much  _ fun _ . I’ve always wanted to conduct it but nobody’s ever  _ interested _ . They hear  _ Prokofiev specialist  _ and think Prokofiev’s  _ fifth _ symphony, but – ”

“Princess,” Shiro interrupts, smiling, and Keith blushes on Allura’s behalf, because that is the sappiest nickname he has ever heard in his entire life.

“That’s disgusting,” he blurts out. “Does he seriously call you  _ Princess _ ?” He looks up at Allura, whose dark cheeks are pink, and he feels a grin spread across his face. “That’s  _ gross _ .”

Allura scoffs. “Yeah, well,” she evades, but there’s nothing she can say, and she looks over at Keith’s smile and beams at him. “In my defense, it wasn’t my idea.”

“It was – it was your  _ fault _ !” Shiro laughs, and Keith glances over at him. “For the first Halloween we knew each other, she dressed up as Princess Peach, from Mario Kart, and it just stuck.”

Keith snickers and hides his smile. “You still celebrate Halloween?”

“Hey,” Shiro snaps, and his face is deadly serious as he stops the group before they step foot into the parking lot. “You’re never too old for Halloween.”

Keith shrugs. “Okay. Whatever.”

The ride to the bagel shop is short, but Allura gasps at the radio when the car starts – it’s tuned to a classical music station – and turns up the volume, shushing Keith and Shiro, even though neither of them are talking. “Stop it! It’s Barber’s first symphony.”

Shiro drives aimlessly around town for twenty minutes while Allura blasts the music at full volume with the windows down, conducting wildly. It’s absolutely fucking  _ magical _ ; she has an imaginary orchestra laid out in her head, knows exactly where each section is and cues them in perfectly. A few times she makes a mistake, comes in early after caesuras, sudden breaks in the music. She doesn’t even pretend to hold a baton, although Keith can imagine it in her hands, bright line of white slashing down through the air as she presses forward towards the orchestra, opening her hands wide and gathering them all up in her cupped palms as the music quiets and then  _ explodes _ , and she bursts her hands open, the orchestra expanding like the universe after the Big Bang.

The music ends wildly, and Allura scoffs. “What a garbage interpretation,” she says as the station announcer repeats the name of the work. “Who was the conductor?”

It’s some guy Keith’s never heard of before, and Allura shakes her head. “Too dramatic,” she says. “Yes, the space between the notes makes the music but put too much in and it just sounds disjointed.” The car stops in the parking lot of the bagel shop and Allura hops out, disregarding Keith’s gaping at her. “Come on!” She closes the car door and pops the trunk open, pulling something out and hiding it in front of her as she rushes into the restaurant.

“Does that happen a lot?” Keith asks a smitten Shiro.

“Yeah,” Shiro answers, his voice breathless. “It’s magical every time.”

“Ugh,” Keith groans, getting out of the car. It’s like being force-fed maple syrup. They’re disgusting. He purposefully doesn’t think about how much he wants desperately to live with them and how they would probably be more than willing to get him a violin and a teacher. It’s over, and he has to accept that.

But it’s hard to do that when Maestro Allura Altea is smiling at him and Takashi Shirogane from a booth in Bagel Factory, her jacket splayed over a large something next to her, two bagel menus neatly laid out across from her. Shiro slides in first, and then Keith on the edge. He wonders if they’re keeping him Not Boxed In on purpose.

“So – this might have been a little presumptuous of me,” Allura says haltingly. “But – ”

“Allura, let him order a bagel first,” Shiro says, reaching across and putting a hand quickly on hers. “Give him a moment.”

“Of course,” Allura says. “Sorry.”

Keith orders a pizza bagel. The second their server walks away Allura turns to Keith again, a brightness in her eyes. “I have something to tell you, Keith - can I tell you now?” she asks.

Keith nods, his mind rambling, utterly confused as to what she’s trying to do.

“Like I was saying – I kind of, it was quite presumptuous of me to do this,” Allura starts again. “But. Well, I read your file and nothing made more sense! Even if you don’t choose us as your foster parents, I want you to have this.” She removes her jacket from the thing next to her and holds it out over the table to Keith, whose mind goes suddenly, startlingly, blank.

“It was my violin from when I took a strings class for conductors at Juilliard,” Allura explains quietly as Keith, zombie-like, reaches up and takes the violin. “My father, Alfor, made it specifically for me – he’s a luthier, he makes string instruments, I don’t know if you know. And of course, it can’t nearly replace your old violin or what it was to you or even the quality of your old instrument, but I know you probably haven’t been able to practice in days, and if it had been me not able to practice – practice piano,” and here she shoots a guilt-ridden look at Shiro, whose face is nothing but kindness and compassion, “I would go insane – so I thought, you could use this, even if it’s not what you played on for years.”

Keith moves his water glass out of the way and puts the case on the table, his attention entirely on the violin. The mantra of  _ it’s over it’s over it’s over  _ that’s been on a broken-record-repeat inside his head has halted too; it can’t be possible that it’s  _ not _ over, can it?

He opens the case

and shuts it immediately, his eyes burning; it’s a whole, beautiful violin, dark grain and wood, red-wrapped strings and a tiny little bridge and a bow and probably a cake of yellow violin rosin, too, and a shoulder rest somewhere in that case. Keith opens it again and his fingers fumble with the Velcro keeping the violin safe in its case and lift it out, his thumb slipping against the strings and plucking them, G-D-A-E, resonant and beautiful.

The shoulder rest is in a compartment at the end of the case, and Keith hastily opens it and pulls it out, fitting it against the violin and putting it under his chin and just drawing his bow across the strings, no fingers, just open strings, a fumbling noise of relief and heartbreak.

He turns to Shiro and Allura, both of them looking at him with absolute excitement; Allura is already crying. “Go ahead,” Shiro says.

Keith slides his legs out of the booth to give him more room and turns to the song he knows by heart, the song he’s been able to play with the utmost love and yearning since he was eight.

Bach’s  _ Air on the G String  _ sounds from the violin, and it’s unreal, the feeling of sound vibrating through his jaw and his vocal chords, down into the base of his skull and his spine, and the restaurant goes silent as he glides over the strings, soaring, and falls to the wavering end of phrase, which rings out until he reaches the beginning of the next phrase, an octave above the previous, fall and slowly rise, and he hears the accompaniment below him. It’s overplayed, popular, corny, but he doesn’t care - holy shit, he just wants to feel again - it’s the only thing he wants -  

He slows as he nears the end, gets softer, just one little trill, and then he fades on the final D, echoing into the silent restaurant. It’s a second of silence and he’s afraid they’re about to be kicked out but instead someone lets out a whoop and everyone in the bagel factory bursts into applause, including their server, who puts Keith’s pizza bagel down on another table and claps.

Keith stares down at the violin, exactly what he’s always wanted back in his hands. And he feels  _ nothing _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW details: after Keith sees that his violin has been smashed, he has a detailed panic attack for a few paragraphs. He also has a flashback where he punches another student after said student smashes his violin.
> 
> Yeah, Iverson's a good guy in this. Originally the role of "dedicated orchestra director" was going to go to Ulaz, but I have other plans for him.
> 
> As always, comments and reviews are more than welcome! (Please leave them.) 
> 
> Links to the music, in order of appearance! Also, if you listen to none of these pieces (none of them have any huge significance in the rest of the story, as far as I know) you should listen to the Scythian Suite, just for a couple kicks, and also the Air on the G String, because it's beautiful.
> 
> Bach's Air on the G String   
>  [Bruch Violin Concerto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fL6Qbn4Mso%E2%80%9D)   
>  Prokofiev's Scythian Suite   
>  Prokofiev's symphony no. 4   
>  Barber's symphony no. 1
> 
> My [main blog](gravitvs.tumblr.com) and my [fandom sideblog](paladumb.tumblr.com). Come scream at me there!


	3. vibrato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That’s the best part of playing the Elgar; if everything goes wrong, the interpretation only gets better because Lance just gets sadder and he’s able to express that through his music. It’s a foolproof choice, and the peak of all of the repertoire he’s chosen. He comes out of his own head as he follows the girl through a hallway to the audition room. She nods at him, and he squares his shoulders as she opens the door._
> 
> Lance is ready for his final Curtis audition.
> 
> That's a lie. He's not ready at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sticking to the schedule, nothing new to see here.
> 
> We're back in Lance's perspective for this chapter! This chapter remains un beta'd, but shout out to my beta, [InsaneJul](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneJul). I love you
> 
> Get ready for some REALLY long end notes this time.

FINALIST TIMES

  1. Chen Yun  10:00
  2. Mao Domen  10:30
  3. Karl Sypher 11:00
  4. Ying Fu  11:30
  5. Katherine Jameson  12:00
  6. Ji-Hyeon Lee  12:30
  7. Xiao Ping  1:00
  8. Leandro Espinosa  1:30
  9. Ji Tang  2:00
  10. Eric Bramwell  2:30



Lance almost shits himself.

It’s the day after his audition - Thursday - and the list of the finalists has been posted at Curtis. Lance takes his time getting to the front of the line of the craning heads of cellists, watching their disappointed faces turn around and walk by him. A few of them stare at him as they go by, but Lance is used to that in the world he lives in.

Then he reaches the list. He scans it and for some reason, he doesn’t see his name at first because, Leandro, but then he sees  _ Espinosa _ and rereads his name again. Again. Again. 

Finalist Lance Espinosa. 

“Mother of everything that is pure and ho _ ly _ !  _ Wepa _ \- !” He spins around. All of the other cellists are glaring at him and he realizes quickly - celebrating loudly might not be the most tactful thing in his current situation - and he sprints to his mother. “ _ Mami! _ ” She’s been watching him closely and her face is bright and alive with excitement, her hands shaking as she reaches for him.

“Lance, mi - mi cielo, did you - ”

He grabs her hands and squeezes them tighter than he should. “I’m a finalist, Mami, I’m on the list, I’m on - I did it, I’m moving on to the final round.” He whips around, looking for the ugly white guy who told him he wasn’t moving on just to throw it in his face and takes a second to hope that he isn’t Karl or Eric, both of whom are moving on. “I - oh my GOd, I have to go and practice, Mami, we have to leave now, I’m going to spend the next twenty-four hours practicing, don’t let me leave Blue for a second - ”

“Lance,” Evelyn says and Lance freezes and stares her in the face. “Stop talking.”

Lance is no longer talking. His brain is running but his mouth isn’t making the words.

“Breathe.”

Two measures in, and two measures out. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel room. You can practice for two hours, and then we’re going to eat dinner. Then you can go back, and practice for two more hours. After those two hours are up, do you know what you’re going to do?”

Lance pushes his head forward like a pigeon, biting his lip, his eyes bugging out. “P… Practice m..ore?”

“Sleep,” Evelyn says, and pushes Blue at him. He takes her unthinkingly, swinging her onto his back. “I’m going to get you your eight hours or die trying. Understand?”

“Not at all,” Lance says. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel room,” his mother says, and leads him out, away from the list with his name on it and the row of disappointed, crying cellists that all glare at him as he walks past. 

As he gets outside, he spots Mr. Xenophobia himself, standing with an arm wrapped around the neck of his fancy steel thread cello case, grinning and talking to two older white people that must be his parents. Lance can’t resist.

“Hey, jerk,” he calls and sees, out of the corner of his eye, his mother put her head in her hands “List is up.”

“And I’m moving on with you,” Mr. Xenophobia smirks. “It’s  _ great _ to see that Curtis engages in affirmative action.” 

“Really? They do? Well - ” Lance says, putting a hand on his hip, but his mother drags him away. 

“ _ Leandro _ ,” she hisses, and Lance cowers. “Don’t go  _ instigating _ arguments with xenophobes and racists, what are you thinking?” Distantly, Lance can hear Mr. Xenophobia shouting something explicit at him but he and his mother round the corner and his voice fades.

“He’s a dick!” Lance protests. “I’ll fight him!”

“You will not,” Evelyn snaps. “We are going home and you’re going to practice, because you know what’s happening tomorrow?”

“I’m going to die?” Lance asks.

“You’re going to get into Curtis,” Evelyn says, gripping Lance’s shoulder and turning to him as they come to a stoplight. “And you’re going to be first chair and then you’re going to be a world-famous soloist.”

“Like Takashi Shirogane was?”

Evelyn ruffles his hair as they cross the street. “Just like him. Except older and without the murderous first violinist.”

* * *

Lance can’t sleep. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, relaxes his fingers and toes, counts sheep, thinks through the entirety of the Beethoven sonata and then the Elgar and then the Bach. His eyes refuse to close. The lowly buzzing silence of the room around him is drilling into his brain.

He rolls quietly out of bed and walks to the window, looking out. They’re high enough up that the city is a bunch of little lights spread out in front of Lance, like grounded stars. He looks up, craning his neck to try and see the sky above him. This was one of the only reasons he didn’t want to go to Curtis - he can’t see the stars from the city. Maybe one or two shine through the haze of light pollution, but everything is the orange glow of streetlights on gray pavement. 

Maybe he can’t see the stars in the sky, but as he presses his forehead against the glass and stares out over the web of electricity, he realizes that the stars are in the ground here.

Lance could have come very close to majoring in astrophysics. He’s always loved science and the sky and space, always got fantastic grades in that department and has little sticker constellations on Blue’s case. He just always felt that whatever he wanted to express through math, he could say through music; every time he wanted to gaze at the stars, it felt better when he had Blue. 

He just knows that if he doesn’t get into Curtis, it’s going to crush him. A conservatory like that is all he’s ever dreamed of and he’d be taking a family tradition to the next level. He stares blankly at the orange city, seeing his abuelo Fredrico’s face when Lance tells him he got in, imagines coming home like a hero, pride written in every line of his abuela’s face, imagines - He’s got to stop. HOly jesus, he’s got to stop. If he gets his hopes up and then doesn’t get in, it’s going to hurt even more. But what if not-hoping is what makes him even more nervous and then he doesn’t do as well? Or what if he does get in and then he goes but it isn’t everything he thought t would be?

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the whirling thoughts. His eyes flutter shut as he sinks into the chair next the the window, bent awkwardly over the armrest so that his forehead rests against the glass, the lights of the city flickering on his face.

* * *

“Lance, mi cielo, get up.”

All Lance can feel is pain in his shoulders, lower back, and neck as he wakes up. He grumbles something - and then shoots to his feet, something cracking in his spine. “Holy crap. Oh, my God, Mami, what time is it?”

Evelyn sighs and places her hands on Lance’s shoulders. “You can relax, mi cielo. It’s 8:30. Your final is at 1:30. You can relax.”

Lance does not relax.

He frantically runs through an abridged skin care routine and his mami has to practically shove a cold croissant down his throat while he warms up. “Please calm down,” she begs, and Lance hits the second movement of the Elgar at top speed. 

“I can’t calm down,” he says, the short spiccato notes sounding like buzzing bees. “Mami, I’m getting into Curtis today, I’m just excited to make it.”

“You are getting into Curtis today, but your hands are shaking, Lance,” Evelyn says. “Think how rocky the third movement will be if you keep shaking like that. Please, Lance, calm down.”

Lance nods and puts Blue down on the floor, folding his hands in his lap. “Yeah. Yes. Okay.”

He breathes in and out, two measures, two measures. The third movement of the Elgar fills his head, the bittersweet love song of the Sarabande from the Bach suite following, calming him and grounding him. Shaky hands might do wonders for his vibrato, but they’ll shake his bow to the core.

He picks up Blue again and starts the proud declaration of the Bach suite’s prelude. HIs hands don’t shake.

1:00 finds Lance in the warm-up room, playing long, slow bows on the low C string, pressing Blue in close to him, letting her growling note resonate through his ribs and his heart. He closes his eyes, trying to visualize the audition room, pretends like he can see the soundwaves as they nestle into the corners and circle back around to him. A faceless panel, asking him questions, watching him play. He’s back in his bedroom at home, his siblings sitting crosslegged on the bed, supporting him.

His alarm goes off. 1:25. His audition is in five minutes.

Three minutes later finds Lance standing outside the doors to the audition room, hearing Xiao Ping  _ nail  _ the Dvorak Cello Concerto to the  _ wall  _ and suddenly all of Lance’s music feels amateur. He thinks back to a masterclass he did in September on the Elgar, when he was really first starting to learn it. It was with some college cello professor from New England - Lance can’t really remember - but the guy had ripped into him.

_ “If you’re going to play this concerto, you can’t play it like an amateur high school student. You have to give this concerto a life of its own because it’s not a really technically difficult concerto, even if it is famous... You sound monotonous... You sound like any other student... Do you even have an interpretation?” _

It had killed Lance. People criticize many, many high school students who play the Elgar because they interpret it like it’s a piece to be conquered, just another thing to put on their resumé and say that they’ve learned. Honestly, that was why Lance picked it up: it’s probably the most famous cello concerto out there and Lance is a shallow motherfucker and wanted to name-drop it.

That masterclass had slaughtered him, and not in a good way. He went home feeling absolutely broken, and almost cancelled his fledgeling Curtis application. But then he’d realized he’d never taken a moment to really think about the Elgar, so in that moment, he did. 

It had been written in the aftermath of World War One and at the end of the British Empire, as it was in the last stages of its collapse, all of their colonies and peoples rioting and rebelling against them. It was one of the last pieces Edward Elgar himself had ever written and even the premier had been a disaster. The concerto was about defeat, about downfall. And the only way to describe how Lance had felt in that moment after the masterclass was defeated. 

It was two in the morning then, and Lance wasn’t able to sleep. All of his family was asleep, though, and he couldn’t play the Elgar at two in the morning, could he?

He’d picked up his cello and stuck on his practice mute, to make the cello as quiet as possible. He thought about defeat, hopelessness. Put the bow to the strings.

“Leandro?”

Lance blinks at the girl with the clipboard, smiling at him. He nods at her. “The name’s Lance,” he says. 

“Lance,” she says. “They’re ready.”

That’s the best part of playing the Elgar; if everything goes wrong, the interpretation only gets better because Lance just gets sadder and he’s able to express that through his music. It’s a foolproof choice, and the peak of all of the repertoire he’s chosen. He comes out of his own head as he follows the girl through a hallway to the audition room. She nods at him, and he squares his shoulders as she opens the door.

Lance steps in and the first thing he sees is a panel of nine judges, with Allura Altea right in the middle.

* * *

Allura Altea. Right there. Right -  _ right there _ .

Okay, Lance, breathe, two measures in and two measures out, you got this, it just wasn’t what you were expecting, it’s fine - 

“Hello!” Allura says brightly. “You’re Leandro?”

She pronounces it  _ correctly _ . Lance almost trips as he climbs the short staircase to the stage.

“It - yeah, I go by Lance,” he splutters.  _ Why is she here? She wasn’t at the original audition. Oh, my God.  _

“Cool!” Allura beams and Lance’s heart flutters loudly in his chest. “Lance. How are you doing?” Her smile is so warm. So very real. She’s so kind. Lance has never been more in love with anyone. 

“I’m good,” Lance tells her lamely and wants to kick himself.

“That’s wonderful!” Allura says. “I assume you’ve not met the new members of this panel. The three on each end - you know them, they were at your initial audition - ”

Lance nods. 

“But I don’t think you’ve met the three of us,” she says, gesturing to herself, a ginger-haired man on her left, and a man with a scar - 

_ ohmygod _ . 

“I’m Allura Altea, the director of the Curtis Symphony Orchestra. This is Coran Smythe, the music theory professor here at Curtis, and Takashi Shirogane, our cello instructor.”

“Greetings, young musician!” Coran Smythe nods extravagantly. 

Lance waves.

“What do you have for us today?”  _ TAKASHI SHIROGANE  _ says, leaning forward and smiling at Lance. A ring glints on his ring finger.

“Bach suite number three, Popper 19, Beethoven 2, and the Elgar,” Lance says robotically.

“I  _ love _ the Elgar!” Allura gushes, which does not help Lance at all. _ Now _ he can’t mess it up or he’ll disappoint Allura Altea. “Let’s leave it best for last, then, hmm? Can you start with the Popper?”

“Of course,” Lance says, and puts his bow on the G string, closing his eyes. His left hand finds the B-flat and he settles into position.

_ My name is Lance Espinosa. I’m not going to mess this up. They’re going to accept me into Curtis. Two measures in -  _

He hits it.

_ Two measures out _ .

About halfway through, Shirogane raises a hand. “Thank you,” he calls and Lance stops, knowing that it’s just because of time, and also because the second half of the Popper is exactly the same as the first. “Can you move to the Bach, now, please?”

“Can you play the Sarabande?” Allura asks.

Lance grins. “That’s my favorite movement.”

Allura looks like she’s about to squeal. “Mine too! Don’t take the repeats, please, for time’s sake.”

Lance  _ loves  _ the Sarabande from the third cello suite. It’s the slowest movement out of them all, and it starts off with a huge, slow, C Major quadruple stop, where he plays all four strings in one chord.

Lance loves the Sarabande because even though it’s for solo cello, its story arc is about a duet. The first half is almost entirely double, triple and quadruple stops, so that the melody and harmony sound like they’re in a conversation, like they’re actually two different voices. Then in the second half, the harmony leaves, and for a very long time there’s only the melody, the one voice speaking; it’s in minor, it’s sad, it’s  _ lonely _ . Then the cello starts playing two strings together again, and the harmony, the second voice, rejoins the first and the Sarabande moves into a major key, a happier sound, because the melody has its harmony back, and the piece rejoices.

The entire time he’s been playing here, Allura hasn’t written anything down on her paper, even though she has one in front of her. 

“Thank you,” she says gently as he finishes. “If you could just start the Allemande and then we’ll move to the Beethoven.”

The Allemande is the name of another movement from the Bach. It’s very quick and nimble, the opposite of the Sarabande. Lance plays about a third of the movement before Shirogane raises his hand. “Thank you,” he says again, and he looks like he’s fighting to keep down a smile when he looks at Allura.

“Lance, meet Shay,” Coran says, and a tall, smiling, black girl emerges from a seat next to the stage that Lance hadn’t noticed. “She’s a sophomore piano major here at Curtis who’s agreed to accompany all the sonatas today.”

Lance stands to greet her and shake her hand as she comes onstage. “Thank you,” he murmurs to her and her face lights up. 

“Not a problem!” she says, and sits at the piano. “Can I have your part?”

Lance hands her the piano part to the Beethoven and thinks about the tempo he wants to take. He starts to snap his fingers to an even beat. “This is the quarter note,” he says quietly. 

Shay nods, scanning the music quickly and checking all the page turns. “I’m not familiar with this edition, sorry,” she smiles. “The page turns are all a little different.”

“That’s fine,” Lance says. “Take your time.”

She nods at him when she’s ready to go.

Lance settles back in his chair and hears the beginning of the piece, where the piano and cello enter together on a low G. He takes a breath for the upbeat and then -

He and Shay come in perfectly on the downbeat.

The Beethoven goes spectacularly well, Lance’s bow gliding smoothly across Blue’s strings, intertwining with Shay’s absolute piano brilliance. There are a few hiccups since they haven’t rehearsed together that Lance is kicking himself for not pointing out to her - a few places where Lance has a fermata that she counts through, a few places where Lance takes a ritardando, slowing down even though it isn’t marked in the music - but all in all he makes exaggerated cues for her so she can see him and they end the first movement together.

“Thank you, Shay,” Shirogane smiles, and she stands, handing Lance’s part back to him.

“Thanks so much,” Lance says to her, and she trots quickly offstage.

“Lance, this audition is also an interview,” Allura says. “Before we ask you to play your concerto, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Great,” Lance says. “I love talking about me.” He gives her a cheeky grin and she laughs.  _ Success _ . 

“Tell us about your cello,” Shirogane says and Lance lights up.

“Well, her name is La Azul, which means  _ Blue _ in Spanish, and she was my abuelo’s - well, a man came into his carpenter shop when he was young and my abuelo didn’t know what to do with a cello - anyway, eventually he passed it to his daughter, my mama, and she gave it to me after I’d been playing for three years because she knew I loved it so much.”

“So this is really the only cello you’ve ever played?”

“I rose through a rental half size and three-quarter size before I graduated to La Azul, but yeah, basically,” Lance shrugs, smiling down at his cello. “I’ve tried other cellos throughout high school but La Azul is actually a Mariano Ortega cello - she’s about 150 years old and in beautiful condition, and no other cello has responded to me like she does.”

“You really love her,” Shirogane observes. 

“She’s my best friend,” Lance shrugs, curling a hand over the shoulder of the cello. “She’s always been there.” He thinks about his mami, and how she’s sitting outside the audition room right now.

“Who’s here with you today?” Allura asks, and Lance smiles. 

“My mama,” he says. “She’s very supportive.”

“As parents should be,” Shirogane murmurs and Allura smiles gently at him. That’s when Lance notices that Allura’s wedding ring matches Shiro’s. 

OH.

“And finally, because we don’t want to run overtime, what... would your goals be at Curtis?” Coran asks, reading from his paper.

Lance nods and absentmindedly strokes Blue’s side. “Just to play as much as I can, I think. I’d really want to be principal cellist, but mostly I just want to learn and understand as much repertoire as I could. I’d also - because my family is from Cuba, I’d want to try to open other people’s minds - like, particularly classical musicians - to music that isn’t all Dead White European Male, you know - because, you meet a lot of white and Asian classical musicians and they’re, they don’t know anything about African music, or Eastern music as a whole, or especially Latin music - composers like Ginastera and Revueltas are brushed off, and everyone knows Arturo Marquez solely from Gustavo Dudamel doing  _ Danzon no. 2 _ . It’d be nice to level the playing field, in a sense.”

Allura nods, her eyes smiling. “Thank you, Lance. Elgar, please.”

Lance breathes. Two measures in, two measures out. This is everything he’s worked towards, the pinnacle of his repertoire. A name-drop, a shout. 

From the onset, nothing happens that isn’t wrong. 

He hits the second chord out of tune and stutters on the ascending scale. He messes up his bowing. In the pause between the exposition and development, he tries to take a second to catch his breath, but his head is whirling too much to calm down. The best part about his Elgar is his interpretation and he can’t interpret if his technique is shit. He tries to think about defeat, downfall, incorporating it into the music but all he can think about is his own defeat. He feels himself shortening long notes, cutting measures off and missing counts. He has a memory slip and has to repeat a note. Where is the orchestra? The conductor in his mind is staring at him, baton wildly waving as he tries to follow Lance’s fumbling notes, and the concertmaster isn’t in Lance’s ear.

_ I don’t need an orchestra.  _

The conductor disappears, the orchestra fades from their seats. Lance squeezes his eyes shut and sees the empty theater, watches the soundwaves echo from his cello and reach the furthest corner. He recovers, but too late.

“Thank you,” someone calls. Shirogane.

Lance opens his eyes and Allura isn’t smiling anymore. “Thank you, Lance. Have a nice day.”

It sounds final.  _ Have a nice life _ .

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Lance says, and exits the room with as much dignity as he can muster.

Evelyn greets him outside the door. “Lance? Mi cielo, how was it?”

He sits down on the floor in front of the bench she had been sitting on, Blue sliding down with him. She stretches out across the floor, her scroll in his lap. “I fucked up,” he says quietly, and his mami puts a hand on his shoulder.

He slowly puts Blue away, doesn’t even hear that one blond dickhead enter and try to talk to him until the girl with the clipboard angrily brushes past and guides him forcefully up the stairs. “Go warm up,” she snarls at him, incensed, and Lance stares at her.

“We don’t tolerate xenophobia here,” she says to him, coming back down the staircase. “At least, I don’t.”

Lance smiles and clips Blue’s case closed. “Thank you,” he says, and turns to his mother. “I have to - go somewhere, I don’t know. Just, walk or something.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Evelyn asks quietly, reaching out and scratching a hand through his hair.

“No, thanks. I’m not going to take Blue with me,” Lance says. “Te amo.”

“Te amo,” she tells him, letting him go. 

He heads out, turning left towards the park right next to Curtis. It’s cold and the air is crisp, blue sky and no clouds. Lance wanders the frigid square until he finds a bench to sit on and presses his head into his hands. 

_ I’m not going to get in.  _

_ The Elgar was the worst I’ve ever played it. Out of tune, I didn’t count right in at least three spots. I had a goddamn memory slip. It was awful.  _ His mind is spiralling, listing everything he’d done wrong, and his eyes are open but he’s not seeing anything except Allura Altea’s disappointed face.

_ If you don’t get into all of the schools you apply to, you don’t belong in music school _ , Mr. Masterclass had said when Lance had told him where he was applying.  _ And your Elgar isn’t nearly good enough to get into any of those. Are you _ positive _ music is the right choice for you? _ It had been after the masterclass, private and backstage, but it still felt like a humiliation. So did this.

Something wet lands on his hand and he looks up quickly. 

There’s a dog. No leash, no collar, but a well-groomed dog nosing at his hand. It’s possibly the most beautiful dog Lance has ever seen, a golden King Charles spaniel with big dark eyes and it has chosen him. He’s honored. 

“Hi,” Lance says morosely, scratching the back of the dog’s head. “I needed this, puppy.” He’s withdrawing his hand when the dog straight up  _ puts its paw in Lance’s hand _ . He almost breaks. Instead, he fits his hands around the dog’s middle - no dangly dangle to be seen, this is a girl dog - and picks her up to put  her on his lap. His concentration now on the dog, his panic subsides, and he smiles at her.

“Hello,” he repeats and the dog licks his face and pants at him. “Are you lost? Do you need help?” She paws around on his lap and steps on his crotch; his breath punches out of him. “Dont - !”

“ _ Mouse! _ ” 

The dog perks up and looks around for the sound of the voice, face stretching into a dog smile. Lance peers around too, but only spots the owner when he starts heading towards Lance and the dog. 

And goddammit.

“Hey,” the guy - who looks to be about Lance’s age - says angrily, heading towards Lance and the dog. “That’s my dog.”

“You’re not taking very good care of her, then, are you?” Lance says, cuddling the dog closer to him. “And is her name  _ Mouse _ ?”

“Listen, she’s wily. Like a snake. She got out of her collar and ran off. Also, she’s my - ” The guy pauses and his face contorts for a split second before continuing - “My parents’ dog. Not technically mine. So I’m not blamed for naming a dog  _ Mouse _ .”

“Well, she’s the most beautiful creature to ever walk this earth,” Lance says to someone who is possibly one of the more beautiful creatures to ever walk this earth. Seriously, the guy is gorgeous, and exactly what he doesn’t need after a shitty audition. “Treat her with some more respect.” He pets Mouse’s head and she presses against his hand. He almost cries.

“Okay, fine, I will,” the beautiful man says. “Now, can I have her back? My -parents will kill me if I lose her to some stranger.”

Lance doesn’t miss the way he stutters on  _ parents _ but decides against commenting on it. “I’ll have you know she  _ chose _ me,” he says. “Came up to me and licked my hand and everything.”

“Mouse,” the guy says cheerily and the dog  _ leaves Lance. Slithers out of his arms and runs to the beautiful man _ . Lance firmly decides that the guy  _ isn’t _ beautiful anymore and is instead an idiot who didn’t know the 80’s were decades ago. He just lost the most beautiful dog in the world to this man. Time to fight for her.

“I needed that dog,” Lance protests as the boy holds Mouse in his arms and she licks his chin. “She was my therapy dog. I just had the shittiest audition ever and she was comforting me.”

“Tough luck,” the guy says. “My dog.” Then his face clears a little. “Wait. At Curtis?”

“No, the Moscow Conservatory,” Lance gripes, glaring at the building on the other side of the square. “Yes, Curtis. Right there. Allura Altea looked at me and  _ hated my Elgar _ .” He knows the boy won’t understand half of the words in that sentence, but he can’t bring himself to care, and he’s pretty sure that everyone understands that sort of sentiment.

The boy winces. “That’s rough, buddy,” he says. “Sorry, I guess. Do you - ” He looks down at Mouse, cuddled in his arms. “Do you want Mouse back?”

Lance is  _ weak _ . Lance is fucking  _ weak _ . “Yes please,” he says quietly, and the boy leans over and plops the dog into Lance’s lap. She curls up into a puppy ball, half of Lance’s cells explode from how adorable she is, and he pets her floppy ears. “Thanks,” he adds, and the boy shrugs and sits next to him, pulling out his cell phone and leaning back.

Lance might spend an hour or he might spend five minutes petting Mouse, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that one second he’s petting a dog, and the next his phone is buzzing with a call in his back pocket. He scrambles for extraction, and when he looks at the screen, it’s a number with the Philadelphia area code, so he answers it.

“Hello? Is this Lance Espinosa?” says a voice with a lovely British accent and Lance sits bolt upright, his hand stilling on Mouse’s head. 

“Yes,” Lance says, barely daring to breathe.  _ Please don’t be calling me just to tell me I didn’t get in. Please don’t call just to give me bad news. _

“It’s Maestro Allura Altea, from your audition at Curtis. I’m pleased to inform you that you’ve been accepted into the Curtis Institute of Music!”

_ No way. _

Lance shrieks and it echoes throughout the entire park. Mouse bolts off his lap and the boy looks at him, startled. “ **_YES!_ ** Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Thank you, thank you - Maestro Altea, thank you so much - ”

“You’re very welcome. We’re pleased to have you! Also, Mr. Espinosa, I believe your mother, Evelyn, is looking for you? Please come back to the main building so we can sort out your acceptance.”

“I will - thank you so much!!” Lance says. “I’m - going to hang up now. Bye! Thank you!” He clicks off and stares at the phone.

“Good news?” the boy says wryly and Lance doesn’t care about the mullet anymore. The boy is back to being beautiful. The dog is even better. Best dog on the face of the planet. Best dog in the history of all dogs. Lance does a happy dance.

“I didn’t flunk my audition!” Lance breathes. “I passed! I got in! They’re letting me in - ” He drops to his knees in front of Mouse and kisses her nose breathlessly. “Mouse. We have known each other for far too short of a time. But I must inform you that - I must go. My darling.” He cups the side of her face and strokes her fur. “I will always love you.”

The boy’s laughing now, a small smile gracing his face and Lance smiles up at him for a second. “Thanks for letting me pet your dog,” Lance tells him. “You’re cool.”

“No problem,” the guy says. “Congratulations on Curtis. See you.”

“Bye,” Lance says, and starts running towards his future college. Holy shit. Holy shit.

His Elgar must not have been as bad as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIEEIIIIIIIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUUU
> 
> Remember how shocked Lance was when he met Shiro? He was all big-eyed and shaking hands and I wanted to emulate that here. I thought that was adorable.
> 
> Also, Coran’s full name is Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe.I'm not making it up.
> 
> As always, anything marked with an asterisk* is important and will probably appear later. If you do nothing else, listen to Danzon no. 2
> 
> [Dvorak cello concerto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fF9zI33Oass)
> 
> [My FAVORITE recording of the Sarabande movement from Bach’s 3rd cello suite.*](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O80q3P6xyCc)
> 
> [The almost infamous Danzon no.2 by Arturo Marquez, conducting by Gustavo Dudamel.*](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpsHUUHZb9w)
> 
> Also, all that stuff about the Elgar is true and actually what some people think. The Elgar rocketed to fame after Jacqueline Du Pre’s renowned recording (see chapter 1 end notes) and this concerto is a favorite of high school seniors looking to make an impression. I’ve always hated the idea that the Elgar is worth less because it’s such a popular concerto.
> 
> And that is my interpretation of the Sarabande! I love the idea of a solo instrument creating two voices all on its own, and I feel like the Sarabande brings that out. And my interpretation is Lance’s interpretation, mwahahaha!
> 
> Brought to you by a cameo by a very special someone! Also, let me know in the comments (comments! please leave them) if you noticed the (very) lowkey Avatar reference.


End file.
